I'm in a mood. It's Sunday. I haven't had sex all weekend. There's a fucking hurricane outside. And if I see ONE MORE instagram of people I went to college with fucking around in Europe because their rich parents dgaf, then I'm going to absolutely lose it. Britney Spears 2007 level.
This happens pretty much every Sunday, and what makes it even worse is when people try and deal with the "Sunday Scaries" by channeling their inner basic sorority girl and lighting candles around their apartment and snapchatting a picture of a glass of rosé. Like, shut the fuck up, please. You're just muddying the social media content pool.
Here's a short list of ways that are actually helpful to deal with Sunday rage:
a first date/blacking out with someone who isn't poor.
Last week I went to a pretty decent French restaurant, got satisfactorily drunk, convinced this uptight finance guy to try and sneak on a boat with me, had slightly above average sex, and then kind of regretted it because I saw that he had a book about mortgage-backed securities on his nightstand... that he told me he had been reading for fun...
go to sushi alone and ruminate.
This is my usual go to when I'm feeling wholesome. No one bothers you in sushi restaurants. Just make sure that your phone is fully charged, and then you can just text/bitch to your friends and judge them for whatever psycho/slutty things they admit to having done this weekend. And by judge I mean support. Or be jealous of.
walk around downtown manhattan listening to:
kelly clarkson/avril lavigne/blink 182/literally anything emo.
Honestly, if you want to give me shit for this one, and in any way criticize my taste in music, fucking bite me. That is all.
text mean things to your ex boyfriends.
I just accidentally did this. Oops.
don't do ANYTHING productive.
When I was 22, I used to be really pathetic and would constantly get guilt tripped into spending my Sundays doing "productive things." This list included, but was not limited to: grocery shopping, cleaning my apartment MYSELF (yeah, not even a cleaning person. I know, who was I?), face masks, going on runs (this was one of the lowest lows, because everyone knows I have a strict anti-exercise policy), making to do lists, pretending I was a 30 year old housewife whose life had already ended, and meal prepping. You know, usual suicide inducing types of activities.
pretend it's friday.
Just full on protest, and refuse to give into what society is forcing upon you. Call your most psycho friend, go to a fun Mexican restaurant, order some patron shots, and don't stop until the bartenders force you to.
quit your job.
I need to do this tomorrow, honestly. But I've also been saying this for weeks, and knowing me, I'll probably just bitch out and spend all day being fake nice to people I hate. Again. Can't wait!